I Yield
by hummerhouse
Summary: Donny wants something in particular from a certain brother, but said brother is being obtuse. One Shot. Adult concepts and situations, TCest. Pairing: ?/Donatello *preview art by the inimitable sneefee, commissioned for this story.


I Yield

Exactly what do I have to do to get him to stop treating me with kid gloves?

We've been together our entire lives. I've shared a bed with him, bathed with him, hunted for supplies and food with him, cried with him. He's bandaged me up and I've bandaged him, more often of course, but it isn't like our bodies aren't used to the other's touch. Shell, when we train, which we do every day no matter what else is on my plate, our hands are all over each other.

The problem is; all of that has been nothing more than what brothers normally share. What brothers like _us_ normally would share. Our lives haven't been anything even close to resembling a human existence because we aren't human. We aren't exactly turtles anymore either; haven't been since that fateful day just over eighteen years ago.

Our teen years have been just as tricky for us as any other male our age, the difference being that we can't seek out a mate because we're the only four of our kind. I don't need a mathematical calculation to understand that our odds of finding that type of companionship sit at exactly zero out of zero.

At some point we discovered that we were actually drawn to each other. Not just out of desperation either; we could have all made do with our hands. If Master Splinter has taught us anything, he has taught us discipline and fortitude.

Of course when the subject first came up, I was delegated to research what moral, physical, and psychological ramifications we might face. They were surprisingly small; even though we're all male we were easily capable of handling the physical aspects of a sexual relationship. I made sure that my brothers understood the concepts of cleanliness and preparation, even though Leo looked a little too concentrated, Raph was rolling his eyes, and Mikey was making lewd noises the entire time.

Morally I believe we're on the high ground. Even though we were raised as brothers, we were also raised to cleave to each other above all others. Forever. We were taught to have perfect love and perfect trust in each other. In situations where it is necessary, we act as one, think as one, and become one. Having a sexual connection is no more than an extension of that philosophy.

The psychological aspect should have been a piece of proverbial cake after jumping the other two hurdles. Before we ever started anything, the four of us sat down and talked it all the way through. We agreed that no one would be left out and that we would continue to love each other equally, just as we've always done. Everyone was supposed to be up front and honest, and if there were any qualms or questions they needed to be presented to the group right then.

We weren't trying to push anyone into something they didn't want to do. If any of us had expressed any discomfort with the idea, we would have dropped it without making anyone feel guilty. It wasn't as though we couldn't live without sex. It wasn't as though we had to have sex.

The thing was that when I looked at Leo I felt myself longing for him to touch me. When I worked with Raph, his rough voice and cocky grin sent shivers up my spine. When I listened to Mikey explain how awesome he was while he bounced around the room, I wanted to tackle him and rub my hands over his incredibly supple muscles.

For me it was love coupled with desire, a need to share everything I had with my brothers, and from the look in their eyes, they all felt the same.

Taking that next agreed upon step into sexual intercourse was amazing. I thought I was close to my brothers before; this took us to an entirely different level. In my entire life I have never felt so complete; it was very nearly spiritual.

There is just one tiny fly in the ointment. Although we all agreed to treat each other equally, he's not playing by the rules with me. We all take a turn at uke and seme, not by some formal contract, but just by whatever mood happens to strike us. It means I get to bottom sometimes and enjoy being completely submissive, or when I'm feeling particularly aggressive, I get to top. It is the best of all worlds.

But even though he happily plays both roles with our other two brothers, he will not let me bottom. Not ever. When we're together he immediately adopts the submissive role, and when I try to reverse our positions, he works me into such a frenzy of lust that I eventually give up the fight and just take him.

Even when we're in a group he manages to maneuver it so that he never tops me. Every move he makes towards me is tender and gentle, as though he thinks that if he lets loose he's somehow going to break me.

I'm not made of china. Just because I'm smart doesn't mean I'm weak. It's infuriating because I know that he knows that as well, I've certainly managed to put him on the mat a few times in the dojo.

I've tried to bring it up, but he's always managed to circumvent the conversation. The one time I cornered him on the subject, he swore he didn't realize he'd never let me bottom and promised to do so the next time. That next time hasn't ever come.

Granted we all haven't been intimate with each other for very long, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let this continue. This is one of those things that can't be allowed to stand between us; it's like the pea under the mattress of the princess' bed. It's annoying now, but could eventually make us all lose sleep. It could start a ripple effect that would destroy the sense of harmony and balance we currently share.

I think these thoughts as I stalk towards the kitchen. I know he's in there by himself right now; for whatever reason he's up late tonight and I'm not going to let this opportunity pass me by.

Leaning against the door jamb I watch as he pours out a glass of milk and then tilts his head back to take a long drink, emptying the glass in one continuous swig. His neck is so muscular and strong; I have to fight a desire to walk right up to him and bite down on it. Right now I have to find a way to get him to want to bite _me_.

He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye as he sets the milk back in the refrigerator and asks if I'm working on something, since I'm not in bed. His expression is a mix of concern, amused tolerance, and aggravation. I don't know how he manages to convey so much just from the look on his face.

I sigh inwardly at his question. My brothers all worry that I don't get enough sleep; that I work too hard on my projects and can get a little obsessive about things. But he always worries more than the others, if that's possible. Nine out of ten times he is the one barging into my lab to drag me away from whatever I'm working on, insisting against my protests that enough is enough.

Our other brothers can get just as carried away when they are in certain moods but I've never seen him force one of them to stop what they're doing. That's another of those inequities that drive me to distraction. Why does he think I'm so much more fragile than they are?

I tell him that I don't currently have an active project; I'm just too wound up to sleep. That is certainly the truth. I don't tell him that he's the reason I'm so tense, I don't want to give him a chance to duck and run before I've pushed my point.

His face changes quickly upon hearing that and I find myself staring into eyes that easily tell me he's just had a marvelous idea about how to help me relax. Before he can verbalize his thoughts, I ask if he'll spar with me.

The confusion he feels is visible; he was on the verge of opening his mouth to suggest we have sex, and it snaps shut at my words. I can almost see the wheels in his head spinning as he changes gears and then he asks why I want to spar right now. He was already fixated on the other idea and it's sometimes difficult to get him to switch channels.

Tonight it wasn't too hard. I explain that part of the reason I'm still up is that I was worrying over how stiff my form seemed to be getting, that I'm pretty sure I'm overthinking my moves rather than just making them. I have no idea why that is, I explain. I tell him that I've been doing the same things for years without ever agonizing over my technique, but the more I think about it, the worse it seems to get.

He frowns and says he hasn't noticed anything wrong with how I fight and I tell him I'm worried that I've hit some kind of wall. I want him to help me shake things up; to force me back into balance.

His concern that I might be right is what finally convinces him to say yes. Our teamwork is as much about balance as anything else and if I'm truly off my stride, I could get myself or one of my brothers killed.

I lead the way into the dojo and snag an extra bo staff off of the weapons wall, tossing it to him. He catches it neatly and waits for me to draw mine. I can tell he wasn't expecting us to use weapons, but since I'm the one with the supposed problem, it's my call.

It's true that when I'm fighting another part of myself takes over; a part that is less cerebral and more instinctual. But it is also true that for me fighting with a staff will always be something like a chess match, everything based on move and counter move. I'm just a lot faster at calculating that next move than anyone else.

I brace for his attack and by the time his bo touches mine, I've already visualized how the next few steps in this exercise will go. My counter move is lighting fast; my wrists are much stronger than any of my brothers because my weapon is heavier.

He manages to block me and then bring his bo down to stop my swing at his legs, but I've got the other end up under his chin before he can pull his weapon back. He's going easy on me, I can tell, and I work to restrain my annoyance. I'm going to force him to be aggressive with me or mop the floor with him. I've had enough of being coddled.

We go again and he moves a little faster this time; not as fast as he's capable of moving, but I know he doesn't want to be pinned in less than five moves this time. Maybe he thinks his slow motion technique is helping me, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but that isn't what I asked him to do.

This time I charge, first thrusting at his face, then his exposed sides, then up to his chest. I move faster with each strike, making him work at parrying my movements. Just as he thinks I'm going to continue going for upper body shots, I spin around and drop into a crouch, swinging my bo at that sensitive outer muscle on his thigh.

He grimaces and jumps back, dropping his guard so that he can rub at his thigh. I let up on him and wait and he congratulates me on making such an unexpected shot. If he only knew that is the first of many in store for him before I'm done.

I force myself to remember that he can really move when the occasion calls for it and I'm not ready for him to win a single point just yet. I need for him to get so worked up that he'll forget whatever reluctance he has for trying to best me as aggressively as he does the other two.

There is a bit of difference in him during the next bout; he is less afraid of using offensive tactics rather than relying solely on defense. He still won't go all out and I knock him on his ass because of that.

At some point I lose count of how many rounds we've gone; he doesn't tire easily and neither do I when I'm stubbornly fixed on an idea. I've finally got him though; he's wearing some nasty bruises and welts as payment for not giving me his all, and now he's really fighting.

His teeth are slightly bared, eyes narrowed, and he's attacking for all he's worth. It's a truly exciting, enthralling thing to behold; a sight I've never been privy to because he never lets me see this more animalistic side of his character.

And I want it, I've been wanting it; aimed at me, fully directed at me. Even during the fight I shudder at the ferocity I can see reflected in his eyes.

As he bears down on me, I let him snap the bo from my hands, listening to his grunt of satisfaction at disarming me. Then his bo comes down and he sweeps my feet from under me.

I could have avoided his weapon but I didn't want to; instead I land on my carapace and rather than rolling out of it, I sit up to see him braced for another attack. The end of his bo is pointed directly at my face and his breathing is harsh.

His body language tells me he's about to leap because he's sure that I'm going to try for my bo. Instead I lift my hands up near my shoulders, palms outward, and stare into his eyes.

When I see his brow furrow I smile, not widely, but knowingly. Very slowly I see understanding spread over his features and he straightens, still staring at me.

"I yield," I tell him softly.

His bo staff hits the mat with a thump and he's on top of me, so suddenly I don't have time to blink. When his mouth captures mine the kiss is both heated and hungry, and he is the one directing it.

This is everything and more than I imagined and I voice no protest as he takes me violently right where we lay. The fire between us is more intense than I have ever felt; it burns me to a crisp and then brings me back from the dead.

When the lovemaking is done, so am I. I'm not sure if my legs will ever work again and I tell him so, to which he laughs breathlessly. He tells me to stay where I am because he isn't finished with me and I gladly obey.

I know he was afraid that he would lose control and hurt me; that somehow he equated my gentle nature with a breakable one. We don't talk about that because now we don't have to. He can sear me from the inside out and he knows that not only will I not fold beneath his rawest passion, I welcome it.

If I have my way, I'll yield to him for an eternity. I rather think he prefers it this way too.


End file.
